Opening

There’s a locked door for which I have no key.
“It’s not that sort of key,” a soft voice whispers,
“you’re the locked door that’s never locked,
but only always opening. That’s the key.”

The Station

There are a number of stations along this route we travel. At one of the least known locations, nobody arrives and nobody departs. Flocks of migratory birds have no elsewhere destination at last. Elegantly simple sufficiency — where natural is not an ideal, an act, a role, a dreamtime pantomime, but the ordinary condition of all sentient beings.

Suppose we are there now, naturally exceeding any conditioned trace of hope and fear, wishing and regretting. Isn’t it so: past and future fascinations make spokes on the time trap wheel. If we spin at all, we’ll spin in place. World after world does the same, an expanse of heartmind in all directions, all directions already home, already at rest at the infinite station.